Oranges and Potatoes

Every now and then, Marie would invite her older brother Sylvio to dinner. ‘Older brother’ sometimes means five years older or maybe even three. In this case, there was only one year and four month’s difference between the two of them and indeed, most of the time; they felt as though they were the same age.

Sylvio had lived alone in the house since their mother had died seventeen years earlier. The rest of the family was pleased about this because it meant never having to face seeing strangers living there. They always felt as though they could still go home if they wanted to. Whenever they’d visit Sylvio, it almost seemed as though their mother Blanche was still bustling about the kitchen; that their father, Albert, was quietly rocking in his chair in front of the large picture window. From his vantage point he could survey his tiny kingdom and keep track of the travellers on the roadway. One might almost detect the scent of sweet tobacco smoke curling up into the room from their father’s pipe__the sound of the breathy ‘uhp-uhp-uhp’ as he sucked air into the embers. It was not unusual to catch one of the now-grown-children casually looking toward the doorway leading to the kitchen, as though half-expecting their mother’s voice to curl about the door jamb followed by her cheerful smile and beckoning welcome. Blanche had a way of lighting up when she’d see them. Married at fifteen and raising babies not long after, Blanche had never lost her exuberance; in some ways, she’d always remained a bit of a child herself.

Although Sylvio lived alone in the old farmhouse situated at least twenty miles from the nearest town, one could not say he was lonely. Fred, Sylvio’s younger brother, and his wife Dawna had built a home just across the road from Sylvio on what used to be known as ‘la petite montagne’, the little mountain. ‘La petite montagne’ was in reality nothing more than a big rocky hill. A Laurentian cast-off that jutted up through the ground across the road and in front of the Dubuc home.

In days past, it had been the location of the annual Church picnic. And before that, it was a playground where many of the kids from the neighbouring farms would meet to play. One summer, when Blanche’s children broke out with the chicken pox, it became a kind of sanitorium. She would send them up on the ‘montagne’ because it was cooler than being stuck in the warm house with their itchy pox.

‘Rest in the shade,’ she’d encouraged them. ‘And don’t scratch!’ Later, it was rumoured to have become a ‘teen get-away’. One of the few places sweethearts could go to escape the watchful eye of the chaperone. Now it was the foundation for Fred and Dawna’s bungalow and the backdrop for peaceful country-living.

Fred and Sylvio were not just brothers. They were friends. Theirs was a friendship that had evolved and become more profound over the decades. They were companions in fishing, storytelling, solving problems of any mechanical nature but more importantly, in caring deeply for one another. The two men were at times sentimental, yearning for their older brother Pitre who had passed away much too young …the third musketeer.

Sometimes, when Dawna saw Sylvio hiking up their driveway, she felt as though she were seeing a boy coming to ask if his friend could come out and play. She couldn’t help but smile to herself as she’d watch the two of them head out to the garage, their playground. She knew that they would be gone for hours to tinker with this or with that.

Whenever Fred and Dawna were away to spend time with their children, Sylvio would pay a quick visit to one of his sisters who lived nearby or he’d take a drive into town just for an outing. His needs were simple: modest transportation for his weekly errands in town, a television or a good book for his evening’s entertainment and a daily routine that would take him outdoors in the fresh air. Sylvio was very comfortable with his life and it seemed that life was equally comfortable with him.

One can quickly come to understand Sylvio’s philosophy of life simply by watching him eat his dinner. He quickly eats what is put before him until he is sated then he puts his utensils down and that is that. He does not linger over food nor particularly delight in its taste. He eats because he is hungry and when he is full, he stops. Life did not need to be complicated.

Yet one must not fool oneself into thinking Sylvio lacks sophistication for the more refined elements of life. Sylvio can often be found reading a novel or listening to fine music. Upon getting to know him, one soon understands that Sylvio has great empathy for others and is a very spiritual man.

Rolling up onto the ball of his feet, shoulders slightly hunched together, Sylvio’s distinctive gingerly walk allows him to seem less visible as he appears to tiptoe his way through life; as though he were afraid he might disturb someone. When he was a small boy, he had learned to compensate for a leg that was slightly shorter than the other. Even now at eighty, Sylvio’s small wiry frame seems perpetually perched on the end of a spring board. Despite his quiet nature, Sylvio has always been very much admired by his peers for being a hard-worker… a man who thinks things through… who finds viable solutions to problems he may encounter. He could always be counted on for a helping hand.

And now he found himself at Marie’s dinner table with her family. Marie loved this time of year. The first snows always made everything feel so fresh and clean. She loved seeing the pristine whiteness and feeling the anticipation of the upcoming holidays. The first snows of December had fallen, muffling the busier sounds of life, tranquilizing the earth.

Her grandchildren had already left the table and were now watching television or playing games in the family room. The girls, Misty and Sylvie, had begun cleaning up in the kitchen adjoining the dining area. Sylvio and Marie were slowly sipping their tea at the table while Marie’s children and grandchildren provided a continuous patter of conversation. Marie glanced through the doorway at the Christmas tree already standing and decorated in the living room. She had always liked to begin her Christmas decorations at the end of November in order to avoid a last-minute-rush.

Smiling, she looked back at Sylvio and asked, “Do you remember the time you and Pitre went to get a Christmas tree?”

In his customary way, Sylvio quickly glanced up at Marie then away and replied, “No, I don’t remember that.”

“You don’t remember what happened after you brought it home?” she asked incredulously.

Sylvio’s eyes moved upward in his head before uttering his conclusive reply.

“No.”





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The strident buzz of an idea had awakened Pitre quite early one December morning. Pitre always preferred to find out for himself each day what that day would decide to bring him. And this particular day had brought him__ an idea.

Placing his hand on his younger brother Sylvio’s shoulder, Pitre briskly shook him. Sylvio woke with a start, wondering what could be the matter. The dawn light was sifting through the gaps in the curtains.

“Aujourd’hui là…toé puis moé…on va chercher un arbre de Noël…pas un p’tit pas-trop-beau là comme l’année passée…mais un vrai beau là…juste toé p’ moé… » Today, you and me, we’re gonna get a Christmas tree. Not a little ugly one like last year, but a real nice one…just you and me… Pitre declared.

Quickly, the boys planned to have their breakfast; get their chores done and head out into the bush fringing the back fields. They were sure they would find a beautiful Christmas tree back there. Sylvio had climbed a fine example of a spruce tree last winter when they had almost become lost in the snowstorm. All they needed to do was find another.

Pitre was anxious to get out there, but it was Sylvio who cautioned him to consider how they were going to bring this tree back home. Pitre became very quiet…brooding over what might be the best method to bring the tree back. He was so anxious to get going that it hurt his head to have to stop and think. It was easy, he quickly decided. They would simply tie a rope around it and pull it back to the house. A Christmas tree wasn’t that big after all. And the two of them were strong! Sylvio pointed out that while he thought they’d be able to pull it back…it might be a good idea to bring more than one rope.

Sylvio’s face then changed from perplexity to confusion and the skin crinkled between his eyebrows. He thought about their tree being dragged over such a long distance. The tree would lose a lot of branches and needles and then it would not look so nice on one side, he quietly stated. Pitre felt this could be easily remedied …with a sled.

The two boys armed with ropes, a sled and determination had reached the post that marked the entrance to the field in back of the house when they suddenly stopped short and looked at each other sheepishly. Without uttering a word, Pitre ran to the wood pile at the back of the house and fetched the axe.

Meanwhile, Rhéa and Marie were smoothing the blankets that still carried the warmth of sleeping bodies when Rhéa saw something outside that caught her attention. Marie joined her at their bedroom window just in time to see the boys and their sled disappearing into the woods at the end of their field. The two little girls looked at one another glumly, realizing they had once again missed out on an opportunity. One might expect such disappointment would bring tears and sobs, but children are resilient as demonstrated by the next few moments that found the girls bouncing down the stairs to breakfast, the boys already forgotten.



“Tiens! En voilà un beau!” Well! Here’s a nice one… Pitre offered, pointing to a spruce tree just inside the forest’s edge.

“Y’est un peu p’tit. P’ ‘garde ici là…pas trop beau ça, hein?” It’s kind of small. And look here…not too nice that, eh? Sylvio had strolled round to the other side of the tree…and pointed out a large gap in the branches.

The boys kept walking, stopping to study every spruce tree they encountered. There were places where the snow had drifted and they sank up to their waists. Undaunted, they continued their mission to find the most beautiful Christmas tree in the forest.

The boys had walked for what seemed like hours when they realized they’d been walking in circles. It was undeniable when they met the footsteps they had themselves made upon their arrival in the woods. They were about to admit defeat, when they saw it. A perfectly shaped tree that looked like the Christmas tree they’d seen in their books at school. There are things in life which define themselves. The branches nearest the ground fanned out elegantly and widely, gradually tapering with geometric precision to its majestic, angelic peak. For all of its defects, life loves balance. The boys stared in awe at the splendour before them knowing instinctively that they had found the one they were looking for.

Yielding the axe that Pepère Lacoursière kept honed to a razors-edge, Pitre made the first blow against the trunk. Chips of bark and wood flew through the air. A bead of sweat appeared on Pitre’s brow and over his upper lip. When he needed to take a break, Sylvio took over. Although, he was three years younger than Pitre, Sylvio’s smaller but sinewy muscles were already catching up to those of his brother. Pitre swung the axe once more. And again. He felt as though he were cooking in his own sweat. The boys continued taking turns swinging the axe until the tree began to weave from side to side. They heaved their bodies against the tree and felt it give way and fall with a heavy thump followed by the swoosh of branches and needles settling softly to the ground.

The boys admired the fallen tree in silence. This is what dreams are like. Sometimes they attach themselves to real things and transform them into visions. Pitre and Sylvio could well imagine the looks of amazement on everyone’s face. They could almost feel their surprise and their delight. This was shaping up to be the best Christmas ever.

The boys got the ropes from the sled and each tied an end around the base of the trunk. The tree would not fit in the sled so they decided they would have to pull the tree. They felt the rope grow taut as they tugged with all their might. They pulled so hard they fell face first into the snow …and the tree still had not budged.

« Ouai…bens, faut tirer un peu plus fort, hein? » Yeah… well, guess we’ll have to pull harder, huh? The boys tugged harder. They grunted loudly with each pull until they felt the tree break free from the snow. The sled made a statement of its own riding atop the tree’s branches.

A barn owl flying overhead gazed downward with wonder at the strange sight below. Beavers moving trees over a snowfield? This was a first.

Back at the house, Marie and Rhéa had long ago finished their chores and were quietly playing in their bedroom when one of them thought about the boys. Noses pressed to the glass, their eyes filled with delight as they followed the trail left by the huge tree now lacing its way towards them. From their vantage point, the tree seemed to float just above the surface of the ground. They didn’t even notice the two figures dwarfed by the branches.

It’s astounding how tenacious the human spirit can be…even in those so young. In life’s journey, what for some is a delightful snowfall, for others is a distressing snowstorm; it all depends on the sturdiness of the sled and on the state of its runners. The two boys grunted, pulled, tugged, wrenched, heaved, struggled. Whether to bring the tree home despite deep snowdrifts and biting cold was never in question. Abandonment never considered. The tree, from the first bite of their axe, had become theirs. They were responsible for it as surely as it was responsible for making this Christmas the most special one of all. All the obstacles that had stood in the wake of their momentous arrival had dissipated like the snow in spring.

Marie and Rhéa ran down the stairs as fast as they could, their excited voices announcing the important arrival to whomever would listen. Everyone gathered around the tree. The boys did not notice the raised eyebrows and dubious smiles.

The family moved in closer. Pepère Lacoursière, the boys and whoever else wanted to help, worked together to raise the sleeping giant. Everyone marvelled at the beauty of the well-shaped snow laden tree. But faces dropped one by one as it became clearly evident that it was too big for the house.

In fact, if our two little girls, Rhéa and Marie had stayed upstairs in their bedroom they would have thought a forest had sprouted in front of their window in the second storey of the house. Meanwhile, an audible groan erupted from Pitre and Sylvio. The memory of the dream was about to flee. Pitre could only manage to hold onto bits of it and he did not know whether he should celebrate the little that remained or regret the much that was lost. This is something that frequently occurs after we have dreamed.

But, something miraculous happened the moment that magnificent tree was made to stand. You see, the moment the tree went up, the family felt its love. It was as if every branch; every needle emitted the essence of its gift to them. It was rather like being at the center of a prism and looking outward in such a way that all the faces of that prism could be seen at once. The face of courage to forge ahead despite all obstacles. The face of caring for the feelings of others. The faces of two boys bringing home a tree filled with their love. The faces of a family receiving a gift and returning the love of those two audacious boys. Sometimes a simple action serves as the vehicle that translates all the love that a human heart can hold at any one moment.

Family relationships, especially close family relationships, are more complex than they seem at first sight. We talk about parents and children and think we know perfectly well what we mean and we do not ask ourselves about the profound reasons for the affection that lies within. From the depths of this profundity, a small voice called out, “Bring the axe!” Pepère deftly brought the tree to size …all the while still preserving its grandeur.

That Christmas, they ate ‘de la tourtière, de la pâte aux patates, du gateaux aux fruits, des galettes, de la tartes aux raisins et aux dates’; meat pie, potato pie, fruit cake, cookies, raisin and date pies all made from foods that were readily available to the family in the winter months.

They had decorated the tree with icicles made from foil paper and bows made from bits of red ribbon and fabric.

This year, for the first time, Blanche had put socks under the tree…one for each of her children. Later that evening, after they had all gone to bed, she carefully placed an orange in each one. An orange was a rarity and a special treat during the winter months. Christmas morning, everyone regaled of their sweet oranges …and the Christmas tree. Well, all except for Marie. When she reached into her sock that Christmas morning, she found a potato. Her brother Pitre had swapped her orange for a potato but, somehow it just didn’t really matter as she sat back on her heels and looked up at the glorious tree that filled the whole house with its scent of primordial forests past and present.

Later that Christmas night, when sleep touched each child with its smoky fingers, they let themselves drift off unresistingly… spirit at peace.